


Whole and Shattered

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Romance-ish, Smut-ish, not as much angst as you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not supposed to be like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She honestly hadn't expected this. Heat and hardness, strength and a driving passion that leaves her breathless and scrambling for any sort of brain power.

It's not supposed to be like this. It's supposed to be clumsy and adorable so she can get him out of her system, prove to herself that he isn't as good as her imagination wants him to be. But it's a lie as he drives into her, pushes as far as he can go in an attempt to see all of her.

The scary part is, she gives it. She's drowning is the thing, in this and in him, so she really doesn't get a choice in the matter. Not that he cares. There's a dark heat in his eyes as he watches her, as he strokes his fingers along the nerves behind her ear. She shudders at the touch, whimpering because it's all inching closer and closer to just breaking her and Jesus, he is _not_ supposed to be this good.

"Maria."

Her body arches, heat pumping harder through her veins. There's so much in her name, awe and warmth and a beautiful cadence that makes her heart beat harder, faster. She whimpers again, has to, can't get enough of her breath to do anything else. Her hips arch into his, against his and her brain whites out with pressure and friction.

He fucks her through it, hard, sure strokes that don't let her catch her breath, don't let her do much more than whine and pant. He's determined, she knows, can tell by the hard set of his jaw as she leans up, presses her mouth there.

"Come on," she murmurs, the words hitching, stilted. His eyes meet hers and they are so dark, so not like the humour and affection those blues normally hold, that her heart slams hard against her ribs before she manages to catch her breath.

He is not his smaller self here, the self she's learned he embodies every day. Built like a god, yes, but heart of the damned, bloody gold that she hasn't been able to turn away from. And he's good here too, considerate, obviously, but she can also see it in his eyes, hear it in every chant of her name. He hadn't expected this any more than she had, not this intense thing that seems to be growing between them, radiating heat and emotion that isn't supposed to play into this.

At least not for her. And maybe that's the crux of it, the fact that he's coming into this more prepared than she is, with a knowledge she didn't have. It's a war he's waged so carefully up to this point - the point where she started participating. Now she chokes on air, her fingers scrabble against his back and her body bucks beneath his as her body flies again, leaving her a limps wreck in his sheets. There is a piece of her that hears him grunt, that feels his pace change until he shoves hard and deep and she knows she's just shattered him too.

Her head relaxes into her pillows, her body going liquid. He's heavy, but panting into her neck and she doesn't have the heart of the effort to push him away. It has nothing to do with how good he feels pressed against her, how much she's actually enjoying his weight. Nor with the way his hand threads into her hair and cups her skull like she is precious glass, like he thinks she wants to move away and distance herself. She would, she knows, but she can’t do it to him.

This man who has given so much to get them here, who has waged that damn war when she wasn’t looking and she knows it. That’s built them up to this, to everything she hadn’t expected because he’s just so damn sweet in everything else. But nothing about this had been sweet, not a damn touch. He’d demanded all of her in these moments and she knows that she won’t give this up now. It’s terrifying and thrilling, a bit like the first gunfight she actually participated in, the first time she had to put her training to use, but she knows this is different. So she gives in to the strange need to bury her head in his neck and her fingers tighten on his back. He hums a little, a sound she knows is supposed to be comforting and isn’t that embarrassing?

Except she knows that now that she’s had this, that they’ve had this, she’s just given him the power to break her. She’s not convinced he will, not convinced he can, but she’s also realistic and she knows who he is and what he does.

“Not yet,” he whispers and she realizes she’s tensed beneath him. “Not yet.”

So she relaxes because she can hear the plea in his voice. She forces her muscles to give way, to focus on the feel of him above her, in her, the way his breath still puffs against her ear. She gave him too much here, she knows, and she knows she’ll fight to take it back. But right now, right now she can give him this.


	2. Chapter 2

They're not supposed to be doing this again. He knows that. He's not ignorant of this new time he's found himself in, the same way he hadn’t been entirely ignorant of these things in his own time. He knows about one-night stands and friends with benefits. He's up to date on prophylactics and gender equality. And he's not stupid enough to believe that the last time had necessarily meant anything to her. They've never mentioned it, never spoken of it, and he'd assumed.

Which, it turns out, had been his first mistake

Not that he'd expected her to show up out of the blue and definitely not nervous. She isn't nervous by nature, he's never once seen her rattled, but she'd definitely had something in her eyes before she'd managed to get her arms around his neck and her mouth against his. It had taken him a minute to get his bearings, and he doesn't really realize he'd caught her tight against his chest until he can finally register the coffee-taste of her mouth - always, always coffee - and the lithe feel of her against him.

He grips her thighs, wraps them around his hips and is so very glad for her strength when he stumbles back a few steps and lets her go to lock the door. Then he's pressing her against it, using the leverage to get closer and they shouldn't be doing this but it's _her_ and he cannot help himself.

She is strength and beauty, hard lines and a brilliant facade, but he's seen her in those vulnerable moments too, when no one notices Steve Rogers because he isn't Captain America. It's the same for her, he thinks, in those moments when Pepper's bullied her into coming for dinner at the tower, or the time they celebrated his birthday with full-on fireworks and she'd though no one noticed he soft smile in the back of their group. But he notices her, has for longer than he'd like to admit considering how long it took them to get to this point, but he also knows that this, her, is what he wants.

And maybe it's that moment that makes him slow, that makes him brush gentle hands down her sides, slide soft fingers beneath her shirt. She makes a noise into his mouth, greedy and just a little desperate, but he's not willing to budge. He will not touch her harder, will not hold her tighter, will not give her the obvious quickie she wants - and yes, he knows about those too, thanks. Instead he slows the kiss, coaxes her lips open. She tries to bite at him, digs her nails into his shoulders, but he is having none of it. Instead, he reaches up for her hands, gets them both in one of his against her back as the now-free hand slips into her hair. He palms her scalp and uses the way her legs are still tight around his hips to keep her body against his.

He lets her break the kiss as he walks – stumbles, thank God he knows his apartment in the dark – but doesn’t let her move away. The grip he has on her scalp lets him tug her head back, bares the soft skin of her throat and he can’t help himself. He tastes the salt of her skin, feels her pulse pound beneath his tongue and moans into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She rolls her hips against his in a delicious move that sends his nerves sparking like wildfire and his grip on her tightening to bruising. She doesn’t seem to care, her breath hitching just before she moans and does it again. He boosts her up further, less because she is a temptress and he is trying not to give in and more because it allows him the space to drag his tongue down her collarbones, get his mouth just above the button of her blouse.

“Steve,” she whimpers and he definitely does not remember her sounding like this last time, breathy and needy. He most definitely likes it and smirks against her skin. She groans because she can feel it, the smugness in his mouth as it dances over the rise of her breast and the confidence in his hands as they slide along her thighs. Then he’s tumbling them both to the bed, pulling her hands above her hand and cuffing them there with one of his. She arches her back, rubs against him, and he chuckles as he pulls away.

He has plans.

And those plans involve his mouth on her skin, the easy way her buttons come undone beneath his fingers. He is no fumbling teenager, hasn’t been for some time, and he parts her blouse easily. The blue lace she wears beneath is entirely feminine, and he finds himself absently wondering if this is a Stark Industries thing, or a Maria Hill thing. He wants to know, desperately and painfully, but he’s not stupid enough to think that having her like this, half bare beneath him, means that he has the right to ask. Or the right to know.

But damn if he doesn’t want to earn that right. Desperately and painfully.

But he also knows that’s a discussion for another night, another time even. Right now, it’s about her skin beneath his hands, the way she arches into his mouth as he tongues at the peak of her breast through the lace. Friction and heat, he knows, and he takes advantage, watches her body react to his mouth around her breast and his hand along her waist, her hips, her upper thighs. She struggles, but he has her solidly pinned and tortures her until the sounds she emits are more frustration than pleasure.

He has to let go of her hands as he trails his mouth down her stomach, as he slips his hands into her waistband to get her pants undone. The noise she releases as his tongue plays around her bellybutton and lower is not an encouraging one and he raises his head, eyebrow raised.

“Another time.”

He watches her as he opens her fly, slips her pants down her legs. He’s not entirely sure what makes him do it, but once her pants – underwear included – and his clothes are on his floor, he wraps his arms around her thighs and slides his tongue into her core. He gets a choked off gasp in reward and applies himself in earnest, teasing his tongue along her folds, listening intently. He finds a rhythm that suits them both, gets his fingers beneath his chin and inside her and sets her all but screaming at his ceiling.

Her eyes are glazed when he fits himself on top of her, sliding a hand into her hair to cup her scalp again. He likes the feel of her, the curve of her skull beneath his hand, the control it gives him as he kisses her. He pulls back and sees the dazed look on her face, a bit of surprise, a bit of just plain satisfaction and can’t stop the smug smirk that spreads across his face. He slides his free hand down her hip, strokes at her skin until her breathing calms and her eyes clear. That brilliant blue looks up at him.

“Or this time.”

He chuckles, kisses her again and slides his fingers between her thighs. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and the way she moans into his mouth and lifts her thigh around his waist tells him she just wants him to get a move on. He braces his hand beside her head, fits himself to her entrance and slides in, slow and steady. She moans, her head pressed back into his pillows. She tries tightening her thighs, but he is patient, and so, so much stronger. He wants to savour it, he thinks, this first warm, wet slide into her core.

He pauses when he’s fully seated, when all he can feel is her. She is everything, and he buries his face in her neck because it hurts, just a little. He knows she’s not where he is, at least not emotionally. He knows that she’s barely realized this could be a Thing, let alone anything real and whole. He’d rather have the latter, especially with her, but he knows enough about her, wants her enough to take what she’s willing to give. For now. And until he feels like he has a leg to stand on, an argument to make, he will take control here, since he’s willing to let her have control everywhere else.

And that means they go at his pace. He pulls back slowly, steadily, and pushes back in with the same patience. He wants to make her feel it, every inch and every second, wants to have her whimpering beneath him with the fell of him and the knowledge that he can do this to her. He can shatter her on his own terms, terms he doesn’t think she usually lets herself break in. He wants her to trust him, here if that’s all he can have, but he doesn’t believe that for a second. She can trust him everywhere, trust him to hold her, take care of her, when she’s too stressed and wrapped up to notice that she needs it.

He wants to leave her languid and satisfied beneath him, wants to hold her close and tight, show her that the woman is just as important as the warrior and he values them both as equal parts of her, rather than one over the other.

But he will take this.

Her nails dig into his back, try to urge him on, but he is having none of it. He keeps is own pace, ducks his head to get at her neck again, tongues her pulse point and nibbles at her ear. She whines and moans, whimpers and gasps and it’s a symphony in his ears. But it’s not enough, he knows. She ripples around him, but her face is a mask of frustration.

“Steve.”

He shushes her softly, gets his hand between them and his thumb on her. He rubs steadily and patiently, in time with his thrusts and sends her tumbling over the edge again. It’s enough for him, it’s always enough for him. The look on her face, the way she tightens and releases around him is always too much – always will be, he thinks – and sends him tumbling after her.

She stays lax beneath him for a long time, longer than he’d anticipated considering the last time, but eventually, she starts to tense. He wants to sigh, but he won’t put her in that position. Not like last time. Because this time, despite the surprise of having her again, he knows he has to give her space. He has to give her the chance to try and put her armour back up. Because the crux of the matter is he knows he’s under her skin now, knows that if he plays his cards right he actually stands a chance of doing more than just having her here.

He retreats to the bathroom while he listens to her get dressed, stays there to give her the illusion that she can sneak out, that he isn’t wholly aware of what they’d just shared. Like she’s keeping her distance. And as he looks at himself in the mirror, the haphazard way his hair stands on end from her fingers, the scratches on the back of his shoulder that are already fading, he feels a plan start to form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we know this wasn't supposed to happen right? Right. Good talk. And hilarity, because in this case 'this' is more reference to another part to this fic and less to the fact that Maria and Steve are apparently having sex. Again. 
> 
> Also? I have a thing about terrified Maria and confident Steve, not in the like "oh yeah, brah, she totes wants me" but more in the "Steve understands why she's running but he also is pretty sure he understands why". Probably because confident Steve is my favourite and because I totally get Maria's POV and one of the top self-aware moments in my life was when my 'ex' told me I never let people take care of me. So. Reasons. 
> 
> Also also? This is definitely turning into a little series like Nuances, Needs and Homecoming. Oneshots that can be read separately or as a longer fic + sex as stepping points in a relationship, Which means updates will be sporadic and entirely inconsistent and the fic will always, technically, be "complete". Cool beans.


	3. Chapter 3

“No. Like this.”

She stops struggling and relaxes against him, exactly what she hadn’t wanted to do. It’s become a pattern now, the way she can’t seem to stick to her own guns when they’re like this, naked in his bed – always his bed, always his apartment, and she’s not clueless enough about herself not to understand the significance – his hands and mouth on her.

This time is no different, her back pressed to his chest, his arms around her and legs keeping hers spread. She is entirely open and vulnerable, but she can’t find it in herself to struggle as hard as she should. His fingers are playing at her breasts, his mouth along her neck and this had most definitely not been her plan. Her plan had been to come in here, to have her way with him, and leave.

The same plan she’d had every other time they’d ended up like this.

The same plan he’d coopted and turned into his own.

She'd never taken him for a dominating man. A leader, yes, but she knows from experience the two can be mutually exclusive. His leadership style is grounded in belief - in his people, in what his people can do - and experience. But here, here he takes control of this, of them and of her. It makes her shiver in his grip, his large palm splayed against her stomach, long fingers stroking her skin in slow, maddening strokes. She'd let him do this last time too, let him take his time, and had ended up feeling more than a little dazed and shattered as she'd tried to put herself back together again.

Her body arches as he strokes her skin, cups a breast in his hand and dances his fingers rather expertly over her nipple. Her breath comes short and sharp in her lungs and she whines at him, rubbing her ass against his cock in a stroke she knows must be terribly distracting. But it doesn't faze him like it has other men. She refuses to consider why, though her traitorous brain offers up some reasons. A lifetime of denial, maybe, or a strength of will she's never gone up against before. Thrills in their own right and she promises herself, when she manages to get some leverage, that it'll be her turn to shatter him.

In the meantime, her head falls to the side as he presses his mouth just under her ear. Her eyes flutter closed and she feels him shift, feels him spread his legs wider, bending his knees and if she hadn't been able to escape before, she knows good and well it'll be impossible now. Not that she's trying to escape. His arm comes around her hips next and her breath catches, not because she's pinned but because she knows that whatever he's been planning, whatever fantasy he's currently acting out, it's about to become her reality. Admittedly, it's hot, the idea that he has a plan, that he's thought about this - and she resolutely refuses to trick herself into believing he's thought of this fantasy with her in mind. It's obvious he isn't as innocent as people - Stark - make him out to be.

He hums against her pulse as he pries her hand from his thigh - there are marks there, little crescents that are already fading and she whole-heartedly wishes they weren't. Then he's weaving their fingers together, hers over his, and drawing a path over her ribs, down her stomach, around her belly button. She knows where he's going and still she gasps when they get there, when he combs their combined fingers through her damp curls. She'd known, of course, could feel the dampness against her bare thighs, but as he parts her curls, strokes their fingers against her slick skin, she discovers she's not just wet, she's soaked. Her mouth opens on a delicious moan and he chuckles against his shoulder.

He squeezes her hand between his, slides their fingers up to brush over her clit and says, "Show me."

Her body flares hot then cold. She tries to laugh, isn't totally sure it comes out as clear as she'd hoped. "You've figured it out pretty well so far?"

His laugh puffs over the bare skin of her shoulders. She lets herself shiver, hoping it's enough to entice him. But he does the opposite, sliding their hands from her core to her thighs, teasing. 

"Show me how to do this for you."

The comment strikes her too hard where it shouldn't and like lightning where it should. Her hand tightens in his, and her breath hitches. It's too much of a tell for her to play it off and she knows it. The thing is, his very particular phrasing isn't lost on her. Whatever prowess he has and hasn't shown her, she isn't immune to the way her heart hitches at the idea that this is wholly about her, about them. And that warms her in ways it most definitely should not given the nature of the relationship she's decided they can have.

He is persistent, she knows, so she settles her fingers more firmly between his and slides them slowly up her thigh. It's a butterfly touch, teasing and tempting with what's to come and he chuckles into her ear.

"Why am I not surprised?" he says as she strokes their fingers along the crease of her thigh. He presses his lips against her neck again, a little nip that makes her gasp. "You like to be teased."

Her eyelids flutter of their own volition, because she certainly doesn't have control over them, just as he slides their fingers in to brush against her entrance. Her hips tilt - she's lost control of her whole body now, it seems - begging without her conscious permission. He merely hums against her skin, the rumble low and warm against her back. He is solid rock, strong and hard and unyielding and she refuses to think about how much she likes it.

Too focused on other things, she tells herself.

She feels his lips against her shoulder, a long drawn out press that she only originally misunderstands because their fingers are doing distracting things between her thighs. He's not just feeling, she realizes as she circles her clit, presses in briefly to make her breath catch, he's watching. He's watching her. Every touch, every caress, the way She directs his fingers inside, strokes and curls them just so. She presses her palm against the top of her core, in the most perfect place to grind against it as she rocks into their shared touch.

"Maria," he groans, actually kissing her shoulder, nudging against the skin with his chin. "Look at you."

She can't, she thinks, because her eyes are closed and she refuses to turn and look at him. She's afraid of what she'll see there, the awe she can here in his voice and the yearning that settles just beneath it. Can't he see they can't have more than this? Captain America and the woman who elected to follow his orders, sending his crashing into the Potomac, cold enough, unfeeling enough, to send a national icon and treasure plunging to his death. She can't be anything to him but this. For his sake, as well as hers. He will break her, and the worst part is that he won't even mean it.

She feels the exact moment he takes back control, the way his arm flexes beneath hers despite the fact that she is supposed to be the one in control. His fingers move with purpose now, the arm banded around her waist bending so he can take her breast in his hand. His fingers dance across her nipple, thrust hard and deep into her core, and his mouth presses against her shoulder, her neck, her ear.

She doesn't stand a chance.

The climax races through her, hard, fast and unyielding. Her body arches despite his arm, her breath harsh and fast in her lungs. She thinks she may even be keening, this desperate, high pitched sound in her ears and a low, rough chuckle that she knows is his.

"There you are," he whispers as she comes down, his hands sliding soothingly over her thighs and stomach. Slowly, so very slowly, he relaxes his legs, carefully lifting hers back together. She takes her time against him, pretends it's about gaining control and not about the fact that she can't seem to restart her brain. God, he shouldn't wreck her like this. He's not an innocent virgin, sure, but this?

His hands slide over her skin warm and large and still a little sticky. It should gross her out, she thinks, but instead she turns in his lap and presses her mouth to his. The kiss is hard and biting and ruthless, like he can’t wait anymore than she can. If she’s honest, this is why she loves it hard and fast, especially with him. Such legendary control falling to ashes beneath her tongue, her teeth, her eyes and lips and hands.

Everything.

She reaches for his night table and the condoms inside, takes her time sheathing him because she will exert control and not because the of way his body shudders, the little sound in the back of his throat as her fingers slide down his length. She straddles him, settles him at her entrance and sinks down. He releases a choked noise, his hands tightening around her hips and she thrills at the idea that giving her pleasure has pushed him so far to the edges of his control. She likes it, way more than she should.

And then, when she’s pushed down as far as she can go, when he’s deep and long inside her, she releases a sigh, pleasured and content. She shouldn’t, good God, because it says so much and his eyes flare with the knowledge that he can do that to her. She squeezes around him and his chest vibrates with the groan that shakes through him. She feels a momentary thrill before his hands slip down over her thighs, around to her ass as he rocks her into him. Her head tilts forward with the strength of the pleasure that races through her, the way his fingers clench in her ass. She’s going to be covered in bruises, but she can’t hate it. She doesn’t hate it.

Which is the problem.

The feel of him inside her, the way she stretches around him, the wonderful brilliance that is the way he moves against her, around her, it’s all too damn good. Her eyes flutter closed as she rests her forehead against his shoulder, turns her face into his neck as she lets him move her. She thinks it might be her favourite way he uses his strength, to lift her and pull her in, twist her hips just right. She tries to retaliate with her mouth, biting at his neck, his ear and listening to the way the groans vibrate through his chest and into her.

“Maria.”

She pushes her face harder into his neck, curled tight so he can’t see her. It’s not enough for him, not that it surprises her. He shifts a little, enough to get leverage with his hips. She knows what’s coming as his hands span her back, slide up until he’s got one hand tangled in her hair again, cupping her skill in the way that makes her feel so damn tiny against him. He tugs on her hair, makes her face him and his eyes are hot and hard.

“There you are,” he whispers and her body starts to tremble. He looks at her like she’s everything to him, like he could die here a happy man and it cracks at the ice in her chest. She knows this isn’t enough for him, that he wants more and it makes her feel both absolutely wonderful and entirely useless. She cannot give into him, cannot give him the things he’s been less subtle about wanting.

The orgasm sneaks up on her the same way his hand manages to get between them. She cries out his name because she doesn’t know what else to do as her body pulses. He follows with a grunt, she catches that much, burying his face in her neck. She finds herself wondering idly how the clench in his jaw would feel if he’d lost enough control to bite her instead.

It takes her too long to come down because by the time she does he’s rolled them to the side and tugged her body against his. From the way her arms are wrapped around him, she knows she hasn’t been innocent, that she’s moved with him as much as her short-circuited brain had let her. As the synapses start firing she tenses, like she always does when he’s cradling her with such tenderness, like she’s something to be cherished and loved.

She’s not.

She expects him to relax his grip as she tries to pull away, like he’s done every other time, respecting her space and her boundaries. But he doesn't. He tightens his arms instead, not to enough to feel restricting, but enough to let her know he doesn’t want her to go.

And just in case she’s missed it, he actually says, “Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Maria.” His voice is low and coaxing and she doesn’t want to look at him, see it all in his face. But he’s persistent and insistent, cupping her skull. “Stay.”

There are a million logical reasons she can give him, all of them racing through her head. But she doesn’t say one. She doesn’t give him an excuse – and maybe that’s really the moment, as she looks back on this later, that she realizes he’s broken through her defenses – just pushes at his chest.

“I can’t.”

She’s surprised when he lets her go then, looks up at him. His face is gentle, understanding and it puts an ache in her chest that last through getting dressed and letting herself out quietly. It lasts through the ride to her apartment and as she curls up in bed, entirely alone, she finds herself rubbing at the ache like it’s heartburn that can be soothed.

It’s not, however, and she falls asleep feeling cold, empty and very much like he’s broken a hole in her heart.


	4. Chapter 4

This time, he comes to her.

He doesn’t make a secret of what he wants. He’s learned she does better when she knows what’s coming, can anticipate his next moves, and he’s done his best to give her that. He gives her the chance to turn him away –and tells himself it won’t hurt, even if he isn’t as convincing as he’d like to be –but that’s not what she does. She steps aside, her face wary, but he’s also not blind enough to miss everything else there too. Vulnerability and a heating lust that echoes what’s blazing through him. It’s been too long since they’ve been like this, and he likes seeing it on her face. He feels a little more stable that way, like maybe he’s not in this by himself.

Not that he’s ever wholly believed he is.

He’s taken care with her. Baby steps and careful gifts. Nothing big, nothing scary. Coffee here and there, a muffin if he’s coming in for work things. He’s on a very friendly basis with her guard dog, Henry –whom he’s learned she brought with her from SHIELD, a show of trust that shakes him and probably shook Henry too –and they have a standing agreement about taking care of the woman they both care about. She attends a lot of lunch meetings now, he knows. Dinner and breakfast too if they can swing it. He’s even managed to get Pepper on board. It’s underhanded, yes, and he’s the first person to acknowledge that, but he’s honestly not sure she’d accept it otherwise.

She’s never confronted him about it, Henry either, he knows. But sometimes, when he brings her that muffin, when he pops by her office under the guise of work and they end up talking about something else entirely, he thinks she knows. It wouldn’t surprise him. She’s just that good. And he knows that’s enough for him. For now.

Or it had been, but as she closes the door, as he sees the way she avoids his eyes, he knows that’s a lie. He’s determined when he needs to be, and the wary way she watches him is both thrilling and terrifying. He’s never once felt like he’s merely taking from her, that she couldn’t kick his ass if she ever decided she didn’t want him and everything he’s done. She’s letting him do this, letting him provide and take care and maybe she sees it as a weakness –she probably does, he thinks –but he can’t see it as anything other than bravery.

It takes a lot to trust another, he knows. It takes more for her.

She shivers as he reaches for her, trails his fingers down her spine. He knows the hunger and lust are in his face, knows that she’s aware he’s come here with a plan. When it comes to her, he always has a plan. He steps into her body, feels the heat of her against his chest, crowds her towards the door. She goes with no resistance, maybe intrigued, maybe as desperate for this as he feels. It’s scratching under his skin, hot and uncomfortable. She’s a damn drug and for now, he’s happy to be a helpless addict.

Her hands brace her against the wood and her forehead presses against it. It’s a submissive posture for a woman that he knows will never be that. And still, it sends heat and lust pumping through his blood and something a little bit more tender. Every move she makes here, when it’s just them, is symbolic and none are lost on him. So where he wants to grab and tear, he strokes, from her hip up her waist, along the arm that’s bracing her against the door. He traces her fingers, watches his large hands dwarf her long fingers as he breathes against her nape. The hair of her messy bun sweeps across his cheek and he inhales sharply as his other hand sneaks around her. It spreads against her stomach, pulls her hips into his and he has the best vantage point to see her lashes flutter.

“Maria.”

He gets a whimper, the rock of her hips against his. It’s her face that stops him, a slightly painful look, a resistance even as her body all but begs for his. His hands soften, grip her hips as he leans over her back. He brushes his mouth gently against the nape of her neck.

“Hey.”

Her eyes open, dark and deep and his breath catches in his chest. He’s never seen her so open, not even in the aftermath of their time like this. Everything is in her eyes, in her face, and he forces himself to suck in a deep breath before he blows it all by demanding everything. So he presses his mouth to her cheek, her temple, her ear, little butterfly kisses to keep himself from speaking and because he can't seem to get his own emotions under control.

Because this time, he knows, it will mean more. To both of them.

His desperation settles, curls itself into the back of his mind. He knows now, that it's just as hard for her to hold herself back. She has her reasons, he knows, and he's sure to her they are all incredibly logical and probably more than a little self-sacrificing. But here, maybe only in this moment, neither of them are thinking about logic. They're thinking about the way his fingers play over the edge of her t-shirt, the tease of having his touch right there, her skin so temptingly close. When it's too much, when she's letting out these tiny little whimpers, arching to get his hand to move with more purpose, he splays his palm over her stomach and slides it up. He cups her bra-clad breast in his palm, uses the strength of his forearm to lift her from the door. He wants to feel all of her, and he buries his face in her neck.

"Steve," she says, and he'd call it a whine if Maria had been the type.

"Just-" But he can't put it into words, the way he just needs this for a moment, this feeling before he lets her get lost in passion and shove him out of her apartment when they're done. Just a moment, he thinks, where he can pretend that she'll let him have more than this.

Her hand lifts from the door, slides back into his hair, and he feels the deep breath she takes in the hand cupping her breast. "We can't-"

"Why not?" he growls, digging his teeth gently into her neck. Her breath catches.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, sounding just the right side of breathy.

"This is ridiculous?" he asks as he brushes his thumb over her nipple and the lace that keeps him from her skin.

"This-" she gives a little hiccup that slides into a moan as he pinches, just a little. He knows she likes it just a little rough. "This is easy."

Which is a better glimpse into her psyche than she'd probably give if they were having this conversation in her office. He knows that and the possessive part of him, that hates how little she seems to be willing to give, thrills as the subtly candid response.

"You think this is easy?" he breathes against her ear, yanks her shirt over her head. The bra beneath is a dark purple, makes her skin look smoother, paler in the shadows of her front hall. It's another glimpse, he thinks, because he is very aware that she favours black lace between her skin and the silky blouses that make up her new uniform. He slides his arms around her again, keeps her pinned to his chest as he watches his hand against her skin. He can't help himself. "Does this feel easy, Maria?"

Her head drops forward and he wonders if she's watching his hand too, can't take his eyes from her skin long enough to check. Instead, he focuses on the feel of her against him, they way she moves into his touch and into him.

"It may have been easy in the beginning," he says, low and maybe a bit dark. She shivers violently, wonderfully. "But nothing about now is damn easy."

He's right, whether she's willing to acknowledge it or not. This is no longer scratching an itch, or living out a fantasy. That has faded. This is need, maybe addiction, but the emotions roiling within him are far from easy, far from having her and leaving. He wants to stay, wants her to stay, wants to make breakfast in her kitchen as she sips her coffee and scrolls through her email at the island. He wants to leave her that wonderful kind of shattered where she can't be bothered to kick him out and maybe doesn't even want to.

He's always been goal-oriented. His determination is legend.

The hand not fondling her breast moves lower, slips into the elastic waistband of pants she wouldn't be caught dead wearing in public. The lace of her panties scratches against his palm and he grins into her neck all too aware he has her basically pinned. In a few minutes he'll have her trembling.

"Hands against the door," he murmurs, watches with possessive pleasure as she does just that. "Move them and I stop."

Her entire body stiffens at the order, her spine going ramrod straight. He softens the touch of his hands, presses his mouth to her ear, her neck.

"Trust me," he murmurs, because he doesn't want her submission. Not hers and never here, even if it was something she could give. He could never want her submissive when he knows just how damn strong she is. "Maria, please."

She takes her time making the decision. It's long enough that his hands slide from her bra, from her panties, until he's holding her loosely against his chest, hands woven together against the smooth skin of her stomach. Her breath catches then, her back arches and if he's honest, she completely shocks him when her hand releases his head, both rising to press flat against the door.

"Maria," he whispers, lets his desperation for her slip in. He wants her to know everything here, everything he's feeling, how honoured he is that she's giving him this. "You're so good, sweetheart."

He doesn't mean it as praise, not really. At least, not superficially. She is everything, beautiful and vulnerable, trusting in his hands and he promises himself, swears that he won't abuse it. Not here, not anywhere.

He kisses her shoulder, more thanks than seduction. His hand traces softly up her stomach, tugs on a bra cup until her breast pops free and he can get his hands on her bare skin. His other hand slips under the waistband of her pants again and he cups her in his palm. She's hot and wet and he's not surprised. She moans, a slightly desperate sound that tells him she's done with his teasing. He gives in, because she's given into him and he is nothing if not unselfish.

He presses into the lace of her panties, relishes the gasp she lets out. She cants her hips into his palm, such an unconsciously desperate move he has to press his face into her neck to keep himself from taking her right here. He breathes in her skin as he presses in again, finds her clit beneath the lace. It doesn't take much for her to soak her panties and he moans into her neck as he feels her stomach clench against his forearm. He builds her higher, moves his hand faster and pinches at her bare nipple. She's flying a moment later, her cry choked off as she tosses her head back. He holds her up as she sags, hums gently against her neck for a moment. But it's all still pumping in his blood, the way she feels beneath the lace, the yearning to feel her bare against his palm.

"Maria," he whispers as his fingers slip beneath the lace, run gently over the soft, hot core of her. "Maria, please."

Because he doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't want to push her farther than she's willing to go. He doesn't want to force her open, he wants to watch her choose this, choose him, choose them. She exhales harshly, her head dropping forward and he thinks she's going to drop her hands, break the moment. But after a beat she grips his hair tighter and pushes her hips into his hand.

He groans against her neck as he slides two fingers inside, curls them just right. He knows her body by now, and he plays it to the hilt. She's still sensitive and she shakes a little as he works her over, his fingers so, so deep and his palm grinding against her clit. It doesn't take much before she tenses for a moment, enough for him to know he's got her, before she starts shaking and trembling in earnest.

His heart swells as he slides his fingers from inside her and into his mouth. His other arm stays wrapped around her, supporting her just beneath her breasts as she sags against him. Her breathing is short and sharp, her eyes closed, and he can't help but see the trust it took her to give him this.

She whimpers as he bends, as he manages to get his arm beneath her knees.

"Steve."

It's a token protest at best and he doesn't let it faze him as he navigates through her apartment to her bedroom. He expects another protest, maybe at her bedroom door, but it never comes. Instead, she lets him carry her to her bed, settle her on the comforter. And then he stops, he straightens. He wants her to be sure.

"Want me to go?" he asks softly, unable to stop himself from reaching out, from brushing his hand over her forehead. She watches him, her blue eyes so clear, so aware despite her two orgasms. She takes her time answering, almost long enough that he leaves anyway. But then she's pushing herself up, leaning on one arm as she tucks her fingertips beneath the waistband of his pants.

"Maria." Because he needs to hear her say it, needs the words like he needs her.

"No," she murmurs, tugging on his pants. He barely manages to catch himself as she leans back, makes room for him. He resists, just a little. It's not enough considering the desperation raging through him.

She rolls her eyes, just a little, just enough and he huffs out a laugh despite himself. "No, Steve," she says, voice strong and sure. "I want you to stay."

He leans into her, kisses her to keep a million emotions at bay. It doesn't help, he thinks, pressing her back against the bed. She goes, warm and pliant and half naked, her hands rising to cup his face in a gesture so surprisingly delicate that he wants to pull back, to crack her open in that way he's promised himself he won't. He grips her just a little bit harder, one hand slipping beneath her head and into her bun. He anchors her head as he kisses her harder. She releases a little sound he thinks is meant to be calming, but he can't settle, can't breathe when he feels like she's giving him pieces of what he wants when all he wants from her is everything. Every broken, dark piece of her, every strong, stoic moment. He wants her for her scars, for her ruthlessness, for the way she stands up for herself and doesn't take an inch, but has the right words for Barton, for Natasha, for Sam and Bruce in dire straights.

"Hey," she says softly, voice shaking. "Steve, hey. Stop."

He stops immediately, of course, ducking his head and looking away. He starts to push himself off her, off the bed but he isn't fast enough. She gets her hand in his shirt, holds tight and halts him, his hands awkwardly bracing himself at her hips.

"I didn't say go."

He still can't look at her. He'll break if he does. He'll take her in desperation, show his hand more than he already has by even coming here.

She sighs. "Come here."

He can't resist her, not a quiet demand like that. He leans in, lets her shift him until he's on his back. She props herself up beside him, close enough to feel the heat of her without tucking herself into his side.

"Talk to me."

This time his laughter is more than a little brutal, brittle around the edges. "You don't want to talk."

"Steve," she says, the rebuke so obvious in her tone. There's some hurt underneath, he thinks. "We talk all the time."

"Out there," he replies, nodding to the door of her bedroom. "Out in the real world where we pretend that I don't know what you look like naked."

He sees the battle, watches as she struggles against being a hypocrite - he's not stupid, she doesn't want to talk about them - and letting him speak his mind. He sees the moment her answer solidifies.

"I'm not worth it. Out there."

He barks out a laugh. "Of course you are."

Because it isn't a question to him and he doesn't mean it as a compliment either. It's a statement of fact, like Natasha's beauty or Jane's intelligence. It throws her off for a moment.

"Not together. This, in here. This is different."

"Is it? You wanted something easy. You think this is easy?"

It takes her a moment, a beat of watching him. "No. It's- It's become complicated."

He nods once, looks back up at the ceiling. "And it's terrifying."

She doesn't answer immediately. Then, "Yes."

He reaches out blindly, finds her hand. "Yeah it is."

"What do you have to be afraid of?" she asks with a snort that has absolutely no humour in it. "If we do this and it ends, I'm the one who'll take the heat."

"Stop," he says softly, his eyes squeezing shut. He doesn't want to think of not having her. "Maria, you don't need me."

She doesn't contradict him.

"You're strong enough, steady enough, to do it on your own." He shrugs. "You have no reason to keep me around."

She snorts and he opens his eyes in time to see her duck her head, shuffle closer until her cheek rests on his chest. His hand shifts up into her hair, tugs the elastic out gently so he can comb his fingers through the tresses.

"Not needing you doesn't mean I don't want you."

"Maria-"

"No. Listen."

He shuts up and waits, because he is not an idiot and any sort of confession, he knows, takes an inordinate amount of strength from her.

"We both know I don’t need anyone and this isn't about not wanting you," she says. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't want you. You wouldn't be here if I didn't want you."

He blows out a breath but it doesn't dissipate the tension like he'd wanted. So he cups her skull, tugs her head until she looks at him. Then he leans in, presses a soft kiss to her mouth. There are no remnants of the desperation of before, nothing rough or urgent. It's slow and thorough, the kind of kiss he hasn't really let himself give her at the risk of scaring her. She gives it back, soft and pliant and half naked against his chest. He reaches for her, tugs her leg up first then all but lifts her, gets her against the length of him. She moves into him easily, slips her fingers beneath his shirt to get her hands on his skin. His hands slide up and down her back, unclip her bra. She sighs in relief and he smiles into her mouth, taking in the full, bare expanse of her back in long sweeping strokes.

She breaks the kiss to tug at his t-shirt and he sits up enough that she can yank it over his head. The movement leaves her straddling his hips, pressing deliciously against him as he lies back.

"How could I not want this?" she whispers into his neck. "How could I not want you?"

There's a shimmer to her voice that makes his breath catch and as much as he loves the press of him against her, he doesn't like the myriad of ways she can hide. He flips them easily, tangles his hand in her hair again so she can't look away. The shimmer is in her eyes too, something slightly broken, something he thinks maybe she wishes she could fix.

He wants to tell her she doesn't need fixing.

Instead he kisses her, brushes his hand over her bare waist, tucks his fingers against her hip. She arches against him, her hands soft on his ribs. The shift is obvious now, something blossoming in the most beautiful way as he nudges her pants and panties down her legs. It feels so, so delicate and the way he worships her skin, the strong muscle beneath, echoes the tight feeling in his chest. From the little whimper she releases as he ghosts his hand up her thigh makes him think he’s not the only one affected by the moment, by what is so obviously changing.

“Maria,” he whispers into her hair, not hiding the emotion in his voice. It shakes him to the core, always has. He knows she’s afraid, knows she thinks she’s not good enough and has known for longer than he thinks she’d like to believe. But those things he’s sure she hates about herself are things he likes. Her single-mindedness, her dedication, her focus. They’re intimidating and beautiful to watch and things that he could never ask her to change, even if he wanted to.

He brushes soft kisses down the side of her face, along her jaw and ear and neck. “Maria.”

“Steve,” she answers, her own voice filled with the emotion he feels pumping in his blood. Her hand slips up over his shoulder until she can slide her hand into his hair. “Steve.”

He flips them then, can’t help himself. He needs the press of her against him, needs her hands over his back, his ribs, his hips. He needs the way she cradles him easily between her thighs, the way her legs wrap around his waist. He presses down against her, slides along the length of her. She cups the back of his neck, moves against him, eyes closed in pleasure. When she opens them again he has to swallow back the words that rise in his throat. Her eyes are deep and dark, full of everything she won’t let herself say, the things that terrify her the most.

“Please.”

He slides his hand up her thigh, dislodges her leg enough to slip from between them. She watches him from the pillows, breathing heavily as he makes quick work of his pants, his underwear. He climbs back on the bed, presses his mouth to her ankle, her calf, her knee and thigh and hip as he goes. He presses his mouth to hers again as she wraps around him, close and tight and surprisingly vulnerable. He has to clench his teeth against the things that want to come out of his mouth, questions and emotions and words that will terrify her.

This is everything.

She kisses him then, and he can’t help but wonder if she could see the struggle in his face. But then she’s reaching out, fitting him against her just right, tilting her hips so he slips inside the wet heat of her and he has to break the kiss to bury his head by her ear. He breathes harshly into the pillow as he pushes in, as he feels her wrap around him and listens to the little sounds she makes as he stretches her.

He will never get over this he thinks when he’s fully inside her. How hot and wet she feels, the smell of her, the sheen of sweat on her skin. When he thinks he can move without exploding he lifts his head to find her and catches his breath. Her face is heartbreaking and gorgeous in equal measure as she reaches up to brush her fingertips against his cheek.

“How could I not want you?”

He lets out a sound that cannot be attractive. It’s a little pained, a little frustrated and mixed with the yearning he feels when he’s around her. He starts moving, pulling out and thrusting in and the slowest pace he thinks he can maintain. She moans at the force, back arching and nails digging into his nape. His breath fans hot and harsh against her neck with every press and he thinks he’s barely hanging on.

“Maria,” he breathes. “Maria.”

She shushes him without heat, strokes one hand over his neck while the other slips between them. He can feel her knuckles against his lower stomach, feel the way her hand moves as her back arches. She’s close, he can tell and he grits his teeth and holds on until she starts fluttering around him.

“Steve,” she moans a moment before her body goes tense, her head pressing back into the pillows. It’s enough, it’s always enough, and her orgasm triggers his. It’s leaves him shattered, languid and sated against her, but the feeling in his heart is full and whole as she strokes his back, curling her hand against his neck.

If only he could guarantee it would feel like this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot say with any confidence how I feel about this chapter tbh. It took me FOREVER to write, the middle part with the talking was BRUTAL (rewritten... five times?). AKA: this one posed a lot of problems. 
> 
> So any comments with details of likes and dislikes are particularly valued for this chapter. 
> 
> AND I LOVE YOU ALL FOR LOVING THIS UGH.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Captain Hill - morning sex.

She doesn’t kick him out.

In fact, she doesn’t even kick him to the couch, nor does he wake up alone.

When he wakes, it’s to the sun coming through her bedroom window and he’s wrapped around her so close he wonders if she can even breathe. She, however, is no better, wrapped around him close and tight and he can tell from the rhythm of her breathing that she is awake and aware.

She’s chosen this.

He swallows heavily and can’t stop himself from tugging her in closer.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

“Hey,” he replies, unable to stop the way his voice shakes. It’s significant, this, the moment and the decision.

Her hand drifts over his back, comfort and reassurance in equal measure. “Do we need to talk about it?”

She doesn’t want to, he knows. She’d much rather pretend everything’s back to normal now, that things haven’t changed and she can get up and go about her life the same way she had before he’d shown up at her apartment door and demanded everything. So he forces himself to breathe, slow and deep, forces himself to let it out just as slowly. He can give her this.

“No.”

She hums and yes, okay, quite obviously doesn’t believe him, but then she’s leaning in, pressing her mouth to his and he takes the olive branch like a lifeline. He turns into her kiss, hand slipping up her bare hip, the satiny skin of her waist. He feels the curve of her breast under the heel of his hand and groans.

He feels her shuffle into him, her palm against his hip, down to his thigh. Her body arches into his beautifully, the press of her skin against his distracting enough for him to close his mind off to everything but her. He rolls her to her back, the momentum rolling his hips into hers. Her breath catches, a tiny little sound he loves and he pulls back from their kiss to look down at her.

His breath catches. He can’t help it. She’s a myriad of scars that tell her long, involved story, but the way the sun plays over her hair, over that toned body is a work of art. He can’t stop his hand from tracing over her shoulder, following a sunbeam between her breasts and down her navel. Her muscles jump beneath her skin, her breath coming faster as her legs bracket his hips.

“Steve?”

He swallows. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

She rolls her eyes, catching her breath a second later when he rubs his thumb over her nipple. “I’m already here.”

He bites his tongue against telling her what it means, how long it took him. What he’s had to endure to get here. Having her here is not as simple as she makes it sound. Instead, he leans down, wraps his mouth around her breast and sucks. She arches, a tight cry bit off in the back of her throat. He tongues at her for a moment, pressing in all the ways he’s learned she likes. Her nails scratch against his scalp as she writhes beneath him, moans when he pulls his mouth from her breast.

“I wish you’d believe it,” he tells the skin of her sternum, runs his tongue over a scar that follows her lower rib. “That I’m not saying it to keep you here.”

Like he could keep her to begin with. He didn’t come into this thinking Maria was something to be caught or won. He didn’t come into this thinking she was pure or without dark places. He came into this because of all of that, because a woman like her shouldn’t have to feel like she has to fight her battles alone. Even if he’s only holding her purse.

“Steve,” she says on a sigh, nudges at his shoulder with her hip to bring his attention up. “We both know I take here. That I’m the one that refuses to give more.”

He shifts until he has her shoulders in his palms, supporting himself over her on his forearms. Her hands rest lightly on his shoulders, rub absently at his biceps like she just can’t lie still. “Do you think that matters to me?”

“I know it does.” Her tone says she believes it too, that she is making him unhappy here. Like the fact that she’s not singing from the rooftop that they’re doing this is a problem.

He leans in, brushes his mouth feather soft against her cheek, her nose, her eyelids when they flutter shut. Everything in him gentles, the way his mouth skips over her forehead then down her jaw, the butterfly touch of his tongue against her collarbone that makes her arch and gasp.

“Maria,” he says, hovering over her mouth, waiting until she opens her eyes. “I want you.”

Then he kisses her, luxuriously, deeply, taking his time to explore her, taste her. He holds fast when her hands get restless, as she moves against him. He can feel how wet she is against the hard length of him, but that isn’t what this is. This isn’t her show to run. Because he knows his words are useless with her. He’s known that for a while now. Maria’s trust, her faith, her loyalty is earned through actions. She trusts him in the field because he’s proven he can follow her orders. She trusts him here because he’s let her have the control.

Until now.

“I want you. Determined and confident.”

He kisses her shoulder.

“In control and strong.”

He brushes his mouth against her collarbone and the delicate skin of her throat, biting back the triumphant grin when she arches into the touch.

“Secretive and stoic.”

He brings his hand into play, cupping her breast. Her breath catches and he knows he has her.

“Scarred and messy.”

Her whole body stiffens, like he’d known it would. He takes his hand from her breast, slides it under her shoulder to cup her skull, fixes on the way her eyes are squeezed closed. He knows she can’t move, can’t do anything about the way he’s pressed to her.

“One day,” he says, thumb stroking just below her ear. “I’m going to spread you out like this, where I can see absolutely everything and I’m going to ask you to tell me the story behind each scar.”

She shivers, hard and he can see the fear as much as the heat. It doesn’t hurt, he tells himself, that she wants to keep herself closed off like that.

“And Maria. One day you’re going to trust me enough to do it.”

Her eyes fly open and God, _God,_ he doesn’t think she’s ever told him so much in one look. He swallows around the lump in his throat as he leans in, gives them both the out by kissing her. It’s enough to know that there’s part of her that wants to, even if the hurt little girl that she protects with her cold exterior is utterly terrified. It has to be enough.

He kisses her until she’s pliant beneath him, until she’s caught up in him again. This is the part he likes so much, the part where she is all warm soft skin and a woman eager to be pleasured. But he can also feel the shaking in her hands, the way she still trembles. So he flips them, rolls until she’s straddling him instead. He threads his hands through her hair, wraps it around his fist to keep it out of her face. There’s curiosity in her face when she meets his eyes.

“Where do we go from here?” he asks her quietly. She bites her lip and it takes him a moment to realize why. “What do you want here, Maria.”

It’s mischief that takes over her face then, and he lets go of her hair as she tosses her head. Then she’s pushing against his chest, sitting up on his hips, everything trapped against her in all the right places. She rocks against him, gasping as he slides through the slick heat of her. He flattens a palm just above her breast, drags it down her body, twisting his wrist at her naval so he can get two fingers on her. Her body jumps, her hand grasping his wrist, her mouth opening in a little ‘o’.

“Steve.”

He gets her hip in his other hand, squeezes just a little. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

She shivers. Hard. And his eyebrow goes up. The endearment slipped out, like he couldn’t help it. It’s not the first time he’s done it, though he thinks it may be the first time she actually heard it. He should be afraid, because Maria is nobody’s ‘sweetheart’, but her reaction…

She laughs a little, eyes glazed and hot catching his. Holding. “I hate petnames.”

And yet. There’s no mistaking that reaction. He circles her clit once, twice. “Just here,” he says as she breathes out a little moan he just loves. “Just like this.”

She whimpers and he tries, he really tries, not to grin. God, there’s something about finding the things that get her going, the contradiction that is Maria Hill here, naked and exposed, and Maria Hill out there, armoured, protected and cold, that hits him like nothing else. A little bit of awe, a lot of honour and the complete understanding of the privilege all mix in his brain leaving him more than a little breathless.

And then there’s just Maria, the way the sun bounces off her hair in the early morning light, the pattern of sunbeams across her body. His hand clenches on her hip, his fingers moving faster.

“Now,” he says, voice low, commanding.

Her eyes flare even as her eyebrow rises. But she reaches between them to grasp his cock in her fist. He gasps out a breath as she squeezes, pumps him once, twice, then fits him to her entrance.

“There you are,” he says as she sinks down on him, as his sticky fingers spread against her other hip. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart.”

Her nails scratch at his chest, punishment as much as pleasure, and he laughs even as she slides down the length of him. They both breathe out when her pelvis presses against his, when he’s so, so deep in the hot, slick heat of her. He watches her eyes flutter closed, her head bow forward. He gives her a minute because God, he needs it too, before he flexes his hips. Her eyes fly open on a gasp to meet his and he smiles.

“Move.”

She does, a gentle rocking at first. He lets her set the pace, his hands bracketing her hips, but not controlling her methodical pace. It won’t last long, he can feel it in the way her fingers flex against his chest, but he still has to grit his teeth to keep himself from taking over.

Then the sounds start. Little breathy noises that he knows mean she’s getting impatient. He tries not to smirk, but knows he fails when she rises up, only to push back down with a dirty twist of her hips. His head flies back into the pillows, neck straining and Maria leans in, gets her teeth against his skin. The sound he releases is undignified, but he can’t help himself. He can feel the way she’s starting to flutter around him, how close she is. He can feel himself straining towards it too, heat curling along his spine.

“Maria,” he breathes into her ear, his hands so, so tight on her hips. “Maria.”

And he’s gone, his vision going white as his eyes slam shut, pleasure ricocheting through his head. She holds herself still – not that she has much choice with the way his palm presses hard against her lower spine – brushing gentle kisses to his jaw. She’s still there when he comes down, pressed warm and solid against him.

“Hi,” she whispers as she props herself up.

He swallows. He’s never done that before, let go before the woman he’s with. He’s a little embarrassed, even though Maria looks entirely pleased. So he spreads his hands on her back, flips them as he slides out of her. Then he’s blazing a path down her sternum with his mouth, teeth and tongue leaving marks just under her breast, around her belly button until he can get his tongue between her thighs. Her hips jack up, almost knock him backwards, but he presses a palm to her lower stomach and sets to work.

It doesn’t take much, not with how well he knows her body and the very obvious fact that his inability to hold on this time makes her wet. Her legs come up around his shoulders, give him room to slip his hand in to the wet heat of her. He pumps them a few times, before sliding them inside and stroking, searching. He knows he finds it because she releases a sharp cry. He rubs again, just as he sucks her clit into his mouth and she explodes.

He presses gentle kisses to her stomach as she comes down, strokes at her thighs until she can move them from his shoulders. He pushes himself off the bed, murmurs that he’ll be right back and heads into the bathroom. She’s still in the bedroom when he gets back, wrapped up in a robe. They stare at each other for a beat before she offers him a tentative smile.

“Coffee?”

There’s no way he’s not saying ‘yes’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spelling errors are mine! So are grammar errors.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Captain Hill exploring one another's bodies.

It sits in her head for three months.

Three months of his words ricocheting through her mind, three months of hearing that hot voice in her head, whether he’s around or not. Three months of letting him spend the night, of making him coffee in the morning. And somewhere along the way she’s started keeping bananas and cereal because, unlike her, he cannot just have coffee for breakfast.

 _One day, I’m going to spread you out like this, where I can see absolutely everything and I’m going to ask you to tell me the story behind each scar._ _And Maria. One day you’re going to trust me enough to do it._

Trust him enough to crack herself open, to leave herself more than naked and sexually vulnerable. Trust him enough to break down those walls and let him see what each scar, what each battle wound does to her.

The weirdest part about it is that she’s not even sure when she’d made the decision. All she knows is three months after he’d made her that promise, she’s here, in front of his door, nervous, but determined, clear in the knowledge that she can give him this and he will not hurt her.

He doesn’t hesitate to let her in – he never does, no matter the day or time – and she starts pacing immediately, back and forth in front of his coffee table. She vaguely registers the way he settles into the couch and waits, like he always does. Like he knows that she’s on the verge of making a massive decision and ready to give her the time and space to make it. Like he’s going to accept whatever decision it is, even if she backs out.

And that makes the decision for her.

She faces him and squares her shoulders. “You told me a couple of months back you’d spread me out and make me tell you the story of every scar.”

She watches him swallow thickly, watches his eyes go molten with the thought. “I did.”

She nods, once. “But you left it up to me.”

His hands have balled into fists against the cushion and she can see the desire, the yearning in his eyes. He wants this so, so much. “I did.”

She hates the way her fingers shake as she reaches for her coat, lays it across the back of a nearby armchair. Her blouse comes next, unbuttoned and stripped off, followed by her skirt. She kicks her heels off too, then approaches him, hands outstretched. He takes them without hesitation, squeezes once in what she knows is meant to be reassurance. She gives him a shaky smile as she tugs him up, hands falling to the hem of his tshirt. He yanks it over his head as she tucks her thumbs into the waistband of his sweats.

Then he’s just in his boxers and she’s in her bra and panties. The living room light is on, bright against the smoothness of his skin and she knows he can see every mark, every scar that litters her body. She takes his hands again, but when she tugs, he tugs back. He’s worried when she looks up at him, so when he tugs again she goes. He wraps his arms around her, strong and solid, and she’s surprised to find that she needed it.

“It doesn’t have to be now,” he says into her hair. “I don’t-“

She squeezes, gets his attention, presses her mouth to his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure.”

She feels the rattling of his breath in his chest, lets him hold on for a few more beats. He’s the one who eventually pulls back, who cups her cheek. He’s picked up some way to do it that makes her feel like nothing can go wrong as long as she has these moments. Pathetic, maybe, but God if she doesn’t revel in them sometimes, in these quiet, private moments.

“If you change your mind, we stop,” he says, and she hates the way the hard command in his voice makes her shiver. She takes orders every day, gives orders every day, she shouldn’t like it here too. And yet, there’s a knowledge, the understanding that if she can’t be in command, there are few she’d trust to give it to. She cannot deny the Captain is one of them.

His eyes search hers, flicking back and forth. Her insides go warm at the intensity of his gaze, the security he can convey to her in a look. “Give me a word.”

Her eyebrow goes up.

“You say it, we stop. Period.”

She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t some sort of kink negotiation, Rogers-“

“Maria.”

Her mouth snaps shut and she watches him for a minute. He needs this, she realizes, some way to tell she definitely wants him to stop. Not that she thinks for a second he’d push her beyond a verbal ‘stop’ either. “Sitwell.”

He flinches and she feels the way her blood runs cold to just say it. Yeah, that’ll work well. Her hip aches with the thought, with the story and scar that goes along with the betrayal. It’s a good place to start. So she reaches for his wrist, drags his palm down her waist until she can press his fingers to the scar.

“We were in Argentina,” she begins slowly, releases his wrist as he starts to dance his fingers over the edges of the scar. It’s a strange sensation that she’s never really taken the time to absorb. “Got caught in a standoff.” She laughs a little. “We were both so green we were lucky to get out alive.”

His eyes are dark, serious, even as he leans down. The scar is inches from the thin skin of her hip and she shivers as he brushes his mouth against it. “You took a bullet for him.”

She hates the way her gut churns, the lump that forms in her throat. It’s the bare truth, but it makes Sitwell’s betrayal hurt even worse. Steve must be able to see the emotion takes over her face, the way she fights against it all because he’s trailing his mouth away in the next second, kissing her hip, the upper skin of her thigh just under the cotton of her panties. She feels her heart ease just a little, just enough that when his fingers feather across the strange, thin, silvery scars her reaction is somewhat subdued.

He rests his chin just above her knee, strokes over every line individually. He waits, patient as ever and she fights against closing up. She can give him this. She will give him this. She wants to give him this.

“Pakse,” she reveals.

“Thailand.”

She nods, lets her head fall back against the pillows as he follows his fingers with his mouth. He traces patterns between the lines with his tongue as she tries to gather the edges of coherency.

“Captured,” she says on a heavy breath, moans despite herself when he lifts his mouth from her skin. “A ‘doctor’ was testing muscle structure. Endurance. Vivisection, I learned it’s called.” Her fingers slide once through his hair, over his ear before she brushes her pad of her pointer over one of the stronger lines. “This was the deepest.”

He takes her finger, presses a kiss to the pad of it, then to the scar. “How did you get out?”

“Coulson,” she says with deep affection, tangling her hand in his hair. It's kind of the story of her friendship with the now-director. “Coulson pulled me out.”

He ducks out of her touch, presses his mouth against a scar on her knee that he must have known about for a while. The groan she releases is embarrassed this time, and makes him laugh.

“I blew my knee on a training exercise,” she says with a heavy sigh, though the way the smile plays about her mouth kind of gives her away. “I had pins, plates, everything.”

She sits up then and he comes with her, takes the kiss she offers. She’s still laughing when they pull away and he arches an eyebrow as he strokes her cheekbone.

“I’ve been shot, stabbed, tortured,” and here she waves to her thigh. “But never has a recovery been as brutal as that one.”

She can tell he doesn’t quite believe her, but just as he opens his mouth to call bullshit, his eyes track to her forehead. His mouth presses gently against her temple and it takes her a moment to figure out which scar he’s found next. She opens her mouth to tell the story but he beats her to it.

“The helicarrier,” he says quietly. There’s still some guilt there that she can’t make sense of, some responsibility he carries on his shoulders that makes her frown.

“We all took some hard knocks,” she replies carefully. She means more than Coulson, they both know. A lot of dreams were shattered that day, a lot of things changed. His view of his new time for one. Her view of him, for another.

His finger traces gently over the scar, follows the line of her cheekbone. He’s thinking of the aftermath, she can tell. New friends, new enemies, watching her and remembering. Her hand comes up to mirror his, to stroke under his eye and through the day’s growth of stubble, leaning back so she’s prone against the bed again. He follows, of course, and she’s struck with the sense that there aren’t many places he wouldn’t, both as a soldier, and as a man.

Trust. Infinite and unconditional trust. She finds herself shivering beneath him even as she fights valiantly to keep herself together.

 _Focus_ , she thinks.

“No one could have predicted New York,” she says quietly, does not admit to herself that it’s a strange sort of evasion. “A demi-god and an alien army… God.” Her body arches as she shifts, rubs against him and she sees the way his eyes go dark for a moment. Distracted. It’s a thrill, but one she brushes aside.

Until his hand slips over her shoulder, brushes aside her bra strap. There are no scars there, at least not on that side. On the other he finds two bullet holes. A double tap.

“Somalia,” she finds herself saying without prompting. She snorts. “I was really, _really_ green. So green that Agent Carter was still with SHIELD.”

She ignores the emotion that rushes through his face. Peggy Carter is not a ghost that haunts them, if for no other reason than the knowledge that she cannot be. A love lost, maybe, but not one that comes between them now. That’s not Steve. She will never pretend he didn’t love Carter – she highly doubts he would either – but she will not be the woman who is jealous of how this man shares his heart. She can’t be, not when he’s made so much room for her. No matter how many times she’s tried to throw it back in his face.

“Rebel forces caught us off guard,” she goes on as he presses his mouth to those marks. She lets him slip his hands around her back for the clasp. Her bra comes loose and he sweeps it away quickly, cups a breast in his hand. Her breath hitches as her eyelids flutter, as she tries to catch herself again.

“She visited me in the hospital. Agent Carter. Director Carter, I guess.”

That stops him, his entire body still above her. Her hand sweeps across his shoulder, cups the back of his neck. She will not look at him for this.

“Told me we matched, that she had two on her shoulder from a mission in Austria.”

His body is all but humming with anticipation, with this glimpse of young Peggy Carter. Well, younger, she guesses.

“Said it was like watching herself all over again.” She wrinkles her nose. “Considering this,” and she waves between them. “I’m not sure that’s the complement it was at the time.”

He shrugs, and it looks pretty nonchalant, but she can see it’s not. His smile is a bit rueful. “I have a type.”

“Apparently.”

But when he kisses her she doesn’t feel like he’s remembering another woman. When his hand strokes over her breast she doesn’t feel like he’s thinking of Peggy Carter. And it hits her again just what kind of man he is, the place in his life he’s carved out with her in mind. Not Carter. Her.

Her body bows under the pleasure of his mouth on her breast, the heat that slides through her without the desperation she made a habit of associating with arousal. At least before him, before he’d made her break down what had her itching for it and feel. He coaxes little moans from her as he takes a nipple in his mouth, as he licks and sucks and leaves his own bruise marring her skin. She almost laughs, probably would have if she hadn’t met the intensity in his gaze.

His mark. Along with all of her scars, he’s leaving his mark on her too, one that will fade with time, that will heal and she shivers beneath the implications. His marks will heal. He will not hurt her. Never permanently. Never in ways that will leave scars.

She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Her breath catches as he trails his mouth down her sternum, counts her ribs with his mouth, presses his teeth into her skin just above her belly button. He finds the next scar then, two really. There’s the jagged mark that looks like a terrible appendectomy scar and the one that curves over the bone of her hip. His fingers trace her hip first.

“Barbed wire,” she says wryly. “I had maybe thirty seconds before the charges blew.”

She shifts below him, turns to show him the way the scar ends, a bit of an odd shaped blob. “Shrapnel on the way out. Knocked me off-guard enough to hit the wire. I think the cut hurt worse than the burn.”

His hand trails up from the shrapnel scar, over the smooth, unmarred skin of her back. It’s a bit funny, she thinks now, the way the scars mar her front, but very rarely her back. Still, she turns when he exerts pressure, brings her arms up to rest her head on them. His mouth starts at the back of her neck, follows her spine even as his hands slip beneath the elastic of her panties. She shivers as she lets him pull them over her hips, as he leaves her completely naked.

“Maria.”

She sighs, her eyes closing as he traces over the silvery brand on her shoulder. He must have known it was there, she thinks. She’s been naked so often – in bed, in the shower, in the kitchen last week bent over the counter while dinner simmered on the stove because Steve actually cooks – that there’s no way he could have missed it. It’s at odds with the anguish in his voice and her shoulder rolls reflexively, dislodging the brush of his fingers. He splays his hand against her lower back instead, like she’s going to squirm away.

“I don’t remember that one,” she admits quietly. “I don’t remember being captured or where they took me. I don’t remember how I escaped. I remember the pain-“ Because that’s not something that’s exactly forgettable. “But I don’t remember much beyond waking up in the hospital to Fury telling me I was done in the field.”

She’s been promoted the day she’d been released.

She twists until she can see him, rolls to her back when he doesn’t restrain her. Her hand tangles in his hair again, pulls him in until she can take his mouth. The heat sparks between them, hums and rises. His eyes are dark again when she pulls away, his hand cupping her breast, palming her hip. His thumb is inches away from the heat between her thighs and she finds herself shifting, wanting the touch.

He smiles, strokes the sensitive skin where her thigh meets her hip. She squirms as the arousal skitters over her nerves feeling raw, open.

“Steve.”

His mouth takes a breast the same time his thumb sweeps in through the slickness between her thighs. Her hips arch as the pleasure races through her, as he presses down on her clit at the same time he sucks a nipple into his mouth. Her cry is strangled, a bit surprised. Her storytelling has banked the arousal, left it shimmering, but the way he touches her now brings it all to the fore, has the heat of it skittering over her skin as his mouth slips back down her stomach.

“What about this one?”

His hand is still between her thighs, stroking, teasing, pressing. He knows exactly what she likes and he uses it to his advantage now, watching with a bit of a smug smile. She’d wipe it off his face if it weren’t for the fact that it would probably stop the sparking pleasure zinging through her.

“Maria.”

She opens her mouth to reply, really she does, but then he’s slipping two fingers right into her without preamble, stretching her deliciously and her mind blanks as pleasure suffuses her blood. Her breath catches, her hips arch and her fingers dig into his shoulders. His mouth licks around the scar, so very close but very much not close enough.

“Maria.”

There’s a command in his voice that her body jumps to obey, stilling completely as her eyes fly open. There’s approval in his gaze when she meets them, heat and approval like he knows what that voice does to her. He looks up at her from the vicinity of her belly button, mouth poised over the scar. She can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over her skin as he circles her clit with his thumb.

“What about this one?”

She gathers the shreds of her brain power, fists her hands in the sheets to ground herself. “Madripoor.”

He hears something in her voice, he must, because he kisses the scar again, stilling his hand between her thighs. It gives her enough to put together enough brain cells. She moans as she shifts her hips, can’t help herself, but her eyes fix on his.

“How I got into SHIELD. Suicide mission. I wasn’t supposed to come back.”

“Yours?”

She shakes her head. It hadn’t been her mission. It had been the sword she’d been willing to die on. Until Coulson had pulled her out, bleeding and unconscious and somehow clinging to life, even as she’d accepted her death. “Marines.”

Her head drops back to the pillows as he presses his mouth against her skin, shifting his thumb out of the way so he can get his tongue between her thighs. Her body arches with the pleasure and she finds herself crying out. Their show and tell pauses while he drives her up, higher and higher and higher until she’s shattering around him, dropping back to the bed, breath short and sharp in her lungs.

He leaves her there for a moment to clean up in the bathroom, comes back to bed with his eyes still dark, knowing, heated and awed, naked now too. His palm settles over the Madripoor scar as he kisses her shoulder, down her arm until he finds her wrist, his tongue dancing across the nerves so close to the surface. He finds a scar there too, and she has to catch her breath when he raises devastated eyes to hers.

“No,” she says immediately, lifts to catch his face in her palms. “Steve, no. Not that. I never… I was never suicidal.”

His breath releases in a shiver, the kiss he presses to her mouth hard and desperate. His breath is harsh when he releases her, his forehead pressing to her shoulder.

“I was sixteen and it was, in theory, an accident.”

“In theory?”

She sighs. She hasn’t told him anything about her father, about the man who supposedly raised her. It’s a deep, dark pit she tries to avoid diving into. Period. But her eyes flutter closed because she’d made a promise. She will not shy away from this. She will not shy away from him.

“My father blamed me for my mother’s death.”

His brow knits immediately and she shifts against him for a more comfortable position, inadvertently spreading her legs so she can cradle him in the curve of her pelvis.

“She died giving birth to me,” she goes on, voice matter of fact. It’s the only way she’s ever been able to tell this story, like she’s giving a report. Straight and simple. “And he hated me for it. Every day of my life.”

She both hears and feels the way his breath catches, the way everything about him shifts and gentles. Like she’s glass, no matter how many times she’s proven she can take anything and everything he throws at her. Physically. Emotionally she finds herself thinking, rather fleetingly, that he may not be far off the mark. His hands stroke her side, soothing this time, different from the heated way they’d danced across her abdomen.

“He took it out on you,” he murmurs, a hand coming up to stroke her cheek.

“And drowned it in a bottle,” she says with a shrug that comes off more nonchalant than she feels. “One of those bottles smashed against a wall once. I slit my wrist on a piece of glass.”

He brings her hand up between them, eyes the scar. “How many stitches?”

“I don’t remember now,” she says, voice losing that cold edge, softening. He’s still looking at her so reverently. The anger’s there, of course, buried under everything else in his eyes, emotions they most certainly don’t talk about, no matter how often they feel it. “I left when I was eighteen and never looked back.”

She knows he can see the truth of it in her face. It’s reflected back at her in this odd mixture of pride and admiration. There’s sympathy, of course, but not for her. For that little girl, maybe, but not the woman she’s become. Because Steve doesn’t pity her as she is now. He never could and not once would she even consider it being out of any sort of deference. He knows her, knows what she’s capable of. It’s a knowledge that’s been simmering in the back of her mind, that she’s been denying so she doesn’t have to inspect her own side of things. So she doesn't have to think about how much of her he already has or how much more she’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s why she’s here, why she’s finally given him this.

Because she’s in so, so deep and it’s high time she admitted it to herself.

His mouth presses against her inner arm again, retraces its steps to her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck. Her body arches, sensitive from the extended foreplay and her first orgasm that’s still humming in her blood, from the mix of it with the emotions welling in her chest. He laughs into her throat before he takes her mouth, hard and biting and everything she needs. He gets his hands on her hips, pins her beneath him as he devours her.

“Maria.”

This time there’s a familiar desperation in the murmur of her name. She gets her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck and has him flipped over before he can blink. His hand slides up her back as she sits up, braces herself on his chest with her hands. She can feel the thump of his heart beneath her palm and finds herself smirking, her hips rocking just a little. His hands fly to her hips, dig just enough that she really feels it. Her breath stutters, fingers curling so she scratches just a little.

“Maria.”

She lifts just a little, just enough, fitting him right at her entrance. Her movements are slow, steady as she takes him in, her breath unsteady as he stretches her just right. It’s always felt like this, she knows, because nothing has ever felt like him, but she’s not sure she’s ever really taken it in, absorbed it and the reality of having Steve Rogers prone beneath her, looking up at her like she’s everything.

For the first time she lets herself actually think it, actually believe, even for a split second that to this man, she is. She is everything wrapped up in exactly the package he wants despite her secrets and her reserve, her caution and her well-known inability to trust.

Except she’s proven herself wrong here tonight, proven to both of them that he is a man she trusts beyond having her back in the battlefield.

She trusts him.

And that’s why she sits up as best she can, uses her palms on his chest as leverage. She starts moving then, aware that she is entirely on display, light from his bedside lamps shimmering over her scars. This time, it’s less about the fact that she’s chasing her release – because it is not the first time her scars have been on display, she’s not a monk – and more about the pride that mixes with the pleasure as he watches her. His eyes skate over all of her scars, one palm splaying across the cross-hatching on her thigh, the other cupped around her waist, alternately stroking the scar arching over her hip and the one that almost killed her.

He doesn’t look like he’s afraid of her, doesn’t look at her scars like a pretty girl like her should be untouched and pure. He looks at them as a part of her, as her strength, her drive, her compassion. Like the stories behind them are pieces of who she is, who she became, and like he’s honoured he knows them now.

Her head bows forward as his hand slides in, brushes just gently against her. “Again?”

She lets him touch her, lets the feelings slide over her skin. “Yes.”

He applies himself with determination as she moves above him, works his fingers over and around her clit as he pushes his hips up with every one of her downward thrusts. Her fingers curl, scratch his skin, leave gashes that will heal in moments, but she doesn’t care. She lets the pleasure slide through her, lets it overtake her when he presses in just right and strokes her through her second orgasm. Then his hands are on her hips, sticky fingers against her skin, but she doesn’t care as he uses the leverage to thrust into her, to pull her down hard and fast, holding her still as the aftershocks of her orgasm stroke him into his own.

It takes them both a few moments to catch their breath. She doesn’t remember collapsing forward, but given how good it had all felt, she’s not surprised. He does this to her, leaves her a quivering mess against him, and it’s the first time she lets herself absorb it, doesn’t think about the woman she’s supposed to be and lets herself be the woman she wants to be with him.

“Thank you,” he eventually murmurs into her neck, his arms still close and tight around her torso. It feels like he’s holding her down, holding her together after all of that and while she’s not generally a cuddler they need this. Both of them.

Still, she raises her head to kiss his cheek, to press her nose against the skin there. “Thank you.”

And he gets it, he must, because his breath comes out on a shaky sigh and she knows what’s coming next. Knows, and doesn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells her, sends the shivers skating over her skin. “I’m so in love with you, Maria.”

It’s her turn to let out a sigh that is not at all steady. “I know,” she says because she’s known for a while. He hasn’t made a secret of it.

“I know you’re not there,” he says, _yet_ going unspoken. While she can’t admit to him that he isn’t far off, she knows it’s true. She’s so very, very close. “But I’m in love with you.”

She kisses him then, aware that he won’t believe her even if she could get the words past the lump in her throat. She lets the kiss do the speaking for her, the kiss and the trust she’d given him here, tonight.

They both know it’s so, so far from the end, not the last time he’ll have to crack her open and not the last time she’ll let him, but lying there, with him, she finally lets herself think it may be an almost perfect beginning.


End file.
